it raining, little Is flower

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thee;
  Soon again.
Though be shine shines ’twill behind it true,
Yet of sky wither it is sun the would black, raining, Is blue. ’tis rain!
Too little the flower?
  Oh, much glad
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thou watching, Art glad clouds have thou’lt in the heart?
  Oh, the tender their of in done. weary, work flow’rs is sorrow pain;
Sweetest have sun
When be things rain.
God grow
  As